


Senior White House Correspondent

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Character Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-02-03
Updated: 2001-02-03
Packaged: 2019-05-15 19:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14796296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Different people of the West Wing reflect on their lives so far.





	Senior White House Correspondent

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

 

RATING: G  
NOTES: New series. See Part One.  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the West Wing or any of its related   
characters. Don't sue.   
SUMMARY: Different people of the West Wing reflect on their lives so   
far.

That was a good lunch. I swear Hoynes ran for his car faster than   
anyone. I don't know if I blame him. He falls into   
the "misunderstood" faction in the club of men, a close cousin of   
my "unappreciated" faction. I'm kidding. I don't feel like I'm   
unappreciated, but I do feel as if I'm about as misunderstood as he   
is. I get looks from the staff around here, strange looks. Every time   
I get a story that no one wants me to get, I get looks. For crying   
out loud, am I not allowed to do my job, merely because these people   
don't want me to? When they think I have nothing on them, we're all   
friends and everything's good. The moment I have a story, it's like   
I'm the bad guy.  
Definitely feeling misunderstood here.  
Let's see, things left to do today: finish report, buy my cousin   
her birthday present, get my exclusive with CJ, go to Jack's to meet   
with Stephie for dinner, feed Errol's cat and then go home and try to   
sleep. In other words, write an article that is in some way worthy of   
thirty million readers, find something nice for a chatterbox who owns   
everything, try to talk casually and professionally with the woman   
I'm attracted to beyond all else, go to a dinky bar & grill to   
converse with a senator's who's full of herself, feed my neighbor's   
pet tabby who happens to believe that it's a ferocious tiger, and   
then crawl into my messy apartment, stumble to bed and snore loudly   
before my head ever hits the pillow.  
Yep, definitely a full day left ahead of me.  
So this is what my life has come to. I'm more important to a   
hungry, delusional tabby cat than I am to the woman I love. I'm not   
so sure that it's that fact that hurts me the most but rather the   
fact that the cat is more open with me than CJ is. At least the cat   
communicates that he's hungry or that he wants to be a tiger or   
whatever. CJ just says yes, then no, then yes, then no, until finally   
I feel like a cat, being led around by a piece of yarn.  
Good kitty Daniel.  
My mother called this morning. She sounds as good as ever. She's   
the most vibrant seventy-year-old that I know. Granted, I don't know   
that many seventy-year-olds, period, but of the few that I do know,   
she's the most vibrant and energetic. I love that old lady. Does that   
make me a momma's boy or something? What the hey? From what I've   
heard, it's only one more thing on a really long list of what appears   
to be wrong with me. Personally though, I like `freak boy' much   
better. It has a nicer ring to it; less syllables and such.  
When I was growing up, I was always writing. People made fun of   
me because I always had a notebook and pens with me. I took notes on   
everything around me and still managed to do well in my classes   
despite the fact that I concentrated more on my writing than I did on   
my schoolwork... Sssh. Don't tell anyone.  
There's just something about writing that has always fascinated   
me. There is something about the art of writing and the necessity of   
communication that made the whole thing very important to me. I know   
that there are a lot of people who don't like me because of what I   
do, because of how devoted I am to it. I've been whined at time and   
again by people who I've written about; they say "I thought we were   
friends, Concannon." They can't seem to understand that I'm doing my   
job. Besides, I'd rather have a friend uncovering certain truths   
about me than an enemy. A friend can be trusted with things, and a   
friend should be trusted to have enough discretion and knowledge to   
know what to print and when. If I never wrote about anyone I knew,   
I'd never have anything to write about, except new legislature, which   
doesn't come around as much as people seem to think it does.   
I report the news. That's what I do.  
It occurs to me now: I'm ranting at myself because I don't have   
the will to rant at anyone else. When it all comes down to it, I wish   
people would just let me write and trust me to know what is or isn't   
okay to write about.  
No one is even talking about Mandy's memo any more.  
There's only one thing about my job that I regret, and that one   
thing got so convoluted on the one night that it shouldn't have. I   
wish CJ would make up her mind. I know that I messed up royally, but   
I don't know how to fix it... I was a reporter on the night of the   
shooting when I should have been a friend.  
It didn't turn CJ off completely because she did seem so   
disappointed when I didn't take the editor job. I think that the talk   
we had in the Oval Office clinched it: We're never going to be   
together; not while Bartlet is in office anyway. Neither of us is as   
willing to make sacrifices as we need to be. She can't live with a   
Press secretary dating a White House reporter in order for her to   
date me and I don't want to be anything but a White House reporter   
because that's what I am. I won't change jobs for her and she won't   
risk her job for me. It makes sense in a professional sense; it's   
just frustrating otherwise.  
My little sister is going to Egypt. She's always going somewhere.   
I think mom is glad both her children turned out to be journalists;   
one a writer and the other a photographer. When dad died, mom stayed   
in the house for days. Finally, my sister and I put together a photo   
album history of Dad's life and gave it to her. She cried for the   
first time since his death and put the album in the coveted spot on   
the living room coffee table. Every so often she looks through that   
album and I'm pleased to know it brings her joy.   
That thing is worth more than a sarcophagus or a pyramid or   
whatever sis is of to snap pictures of now.  
So this is the way the world looked through my father's eyes. He   
often told me stories about when he was a child or a teenager,   
stories that told me more about him than anything else. My father was   
a good man, the type of man I've always aspired to be. I think he'd   
be proud of me and of my sister. He would have liked CJ. I'm sure she   
would have liked him too.  
I have to finish writing this article but I find that I just   
can't think straight. I'm not sure what it is. It's a combination of   
many things, I suppose. CJ, my mother, my boss, my sister, this   
stupid meeting with the senator from Oklahoma, knowing I have to face   
Fluffy the "tiger" in a few hours... Yes, the tabby cat's name is   
Fluffy. Don't blame me. I would have named it "Delusional"   
or "Bengal" or "Picasso" or something like that.  
Errol's a simple guy that way.  
Random thoughts keep entering my head. It's like I don't have   
anything better to do than think about absolutely nothing. I know for   
a fact that this is not true, but for the moment, I feel content to   
believe that it is.   
What a fascinating thought it is to wonder about the days and   
years that have led up to this moment. When I was little, I played   
games with my father. When I was a teen, I was always either reading   
or writing, the latter more often than not, and I was also   
discovering girls and the importance of cars. Then came college,   
where I majored in Journalism and I had Maria. I loved Maria so much.   
She said she loved me too, but I guess not as much as she loved that   
football player...  
Oh, well. It seems that I'm destined to be alone for a little   
while longer. I love CJ dearly but I think that there's a time and a   
place for everything; now is not the time for us. Besides, I hear   
she's got some tall, dark, handsome guy to take care of her now. I   
think that's good... Good because she's happy then, at least. To   
be honest, I'd rather I was the one who was making her happy, but   
we've both made our own choices and so here we are.  
I've got some phone calls to make. I've got to talk to the Vice   
President about something called... uh, damn this desk is   
messy... I lost the memo. Crap. Well, at least maybe I don't have   
to listen to him describe to me again the dreams where he's killing   
me. He loves to tell me that kind of stuff. It's scary sometimes.   
Hoynes can be scary sometimes. He can scowl and I'll know that I may   
have taken things a bit too far. Still, he's a good man and a good   
leader, so I can be rest assured that he won't be acting on his   
dreams any time soon.  
Damn, I found it again. Now I do have to talk to him after all. I   
think I'll arm myself... with a staple maybe.

******************

  


End file.
